The sun was rising slowly, its golden light spreading over the hills of Volcrist, but it did not bring the usual peace. Instead, the sky was stained red, as if the very firmament bore the marks of the blood spilled during that night of horror. The air, still cold from the lingering night, seemed to writhe under the weight of what had just transpired.

Thorneveil's spy, once a silent presence, now ran desperately, his heart pounding with what he had just witnessed. He knew his role there was over. The battle had taken a turn no one could have predicted. He hurried away, a shadow fleeing the dawn.

Aemon lay on the ground, finally freed from the smoke that had once poured from his body. His form, a landscape of pain and destruction, still radiated heat, but his eyes, now calmer, were fixed on something distant. He gazed at the horizon, where the sun began to rise—an ominous warning of what was yet to come.

Lilith and Cerys rushed toward him, their expressions a mix of concern and relief, but also a deep, quiet respect. When they reached his side, the prince lifted his head with a weak smile, his eyes no longer burning with their former fire, yet still holding a glimmer of his old spirit.

— Let me fall and sleep as well... I deserve it, he said, his voice dragged by pain but laced with irony, a faint echo of the Aemon they all knew.

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Lilith looked at him, her expression both stern and filled with unspoken affection. She knew he was jesting, but in that moment, his words could not hide the gravity of his condition.

Cerys, ever pragmatic, was in another state of mind. She looked at Aemon, her gaze fixed on him with an unusual blend of immense softness and fierce determination.

— We will take him to the castle. I’ll handle the rest of the battlefield, she said, her voice firm and unwavering. The egg... will be placed in the castle vault.

With careful movements, Lilith and Cerys lifted Aemon, his battered body heavy with the toll of battle. Aemon let himself be carried, too drained to protest, merely allowing the world around him to keep turning. He knew he was at his limit, but his mind drifted elsewhere now, to some dark and distant place where the battle had left its mark.

The battlefield, now eerily silent, lay under the shroud of night and destruction. Fresh blood mingled with the earth, and torches flickered, as if they were the last witnesses to what had just occurred. The war—or at least that battle—had come to an end. But the price paid for it had yet to be fully realized.

As Aemon was carried toward the castle, the vision of the red dawn continued to stretch across the horizon, reflecting the uncertainty of what lay ahead. What came next would be a matter of survival, but the question lingering in the air was: who would survive, and more importantly, who would have the strength to rebuild what had been destroyed?